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Never mind that the holy monk was handsome and compelling and persuasive.

He was about to undermine her ambitions and foil her plans to save the day.

Of course that thought was beneath her. Prideful. Ridiculous. Did it matter who handled the negotiations? As long as the results were beneficial, what difference did it make who initiated them?

If the Pope wished to claim credit for solving the conflict, so be it. After all, she’d said it herself. A happy ending made the details unimportant.

Yet the thought kept biting at her like a determined flea.

For months, she’d longed to do something important.

More important than rescuing pups from abusive owners.

More significant than praying over sick children.

More heroic than helping a knight elope with his true love.

And now, when she finally had an opportunity to prove her worth, who had shown up to ruin her plans? None other than the esteemed representative of the Pope himself.

She sighed.

It was an unspeakably selfish thought. She knew that. Selfish and unworthy of her station as a nun. The abbess had even told her so. But she’d always had a hard time controlling her wayward thoughts.

Like the wayward thoughts she was having now as she let her gaze course down the monk’s impressive form.

His cassock, belted below his waist, clung to his narrow hips and trim buttocks.

The powerful gestures he made as he spoke to the lairds belied the sedentary life of a monk.

His hands were muscular, closing into fists and then opening with strength and grace.

He held one commanding finger aloft to make a point.

Then he clasped his hands together like a warrior celebrating his victory.

She could imagine those manly fingers running through her hair…caressing her cheek…brushing her lips…

She started as he turned to follow the lairds, across the bridge from the bailey to the motte. Of course. King Malcolm wasn’t coming to them. He’d naturally conduct negotiations privately, in the comfort of his keep. A place a mere nun couldn’t follow. No matter how invisible she was.

Shite.

She’d hoped to make the acquaintance of the Pope’s representative. After all, he was an important man in the church.

She frowned.

Then she straightened with determination. She could fix this.

She’d simply wait for him to emerge, she decided, and strike up a conversation with him.

Inquire about some biblical interpretation or request moral direction.

Before they parted, she’d whisper her name in his ear and ask him to pass it along to the Pope.

Perhaps, with holy guidance from on high, Eve could find her Greater Purpose.

It was a worthy notion.

However, her plans to wait patiently among the pavilions were foiled when a contingent of Rivenlochs suddenly arrived.

Sweet Saints! Had they followed her?

Eve dared not let them see her. Any of the Rivenloch clanfolk might recognize her. She was the nun who’d been at Darragh Castle for the clan wedding, after all—right before Sir Gellir’s betrothed had mysteriously disappeared.

Nuns might be invisible, but the Rivenlochs were clever and discerning. With the exception of Sir Hew, of course. Hew, not realizing Eve was a nun, had once tried to court her.

In any event, she needed to slip out of sight and watch from afar.

The worst thing about being a Rivenloch, Adam decided, was the visibility.

The clan was so well-known, it was nigh impossible for a Rivenloch man to blink an eye without someone reporting it to the town crier.

Yet, despite being the nephew of the laird, Adam la Nuit had somehow escaped the curse of Rivenloch fame. His cousins and even his sister were renown for their words and deeds. But no one really saw or remembered Adam. Which was how he was able to pose as the emissary of the Pope.

He supposed any other man would have been shaking in his boots to commit such sacrilege.

But Adam wasn’t afraid. Situations like this seldom frightened him. Indeed, his unflappable nature made his Rivenloch kin assume he was fearless.

That wasn’t quite true.

There were things Adam feared. Rabid wolves. Debilitating sickness. Being permanently marked by a scar that would make him forever identifiable.

But feigning to be the messenger of the Pope? That didn’t scare him.

After all, he reasoned, no one in Scotland knew what the Pope’s emissaries looked like. If indeed the Pope even had such emissaries.

Adam spoke passable Latin, and he could feign a respectable Roman accent.

Besides, he’d played lofty roles before.

The French artist Godefroid de Claire. The German Minnes?nger Meinloh von Sevelingen.

The mystic Hildegard of Bingen. To obtain free lodging, he’d once posed as the right hand man of young King Malcolm himself, while his cousin Brand pretended to be the king.

Adam was confident of his skills. He was a good mimic. He had a forgettable face. And it didn’t hurt that he was the son of spies. No doubt Lady Miriel and Sir Rand had passed on to him their natural talents for stealth and secrecy.

Of course, he’d met King Malcolm before—as himself, Sir Adam la Nuit of Rivenloch. The Rivenlochs were some of the king’s most loyal and valuable vassals. They’d protected Scotland’s southern border for centuries.

But garbed as a monk in holy robes? The king failed to recognize Adam, even in the close quarters of his great hall.

Adam had originally come here on a rescue mission. After his cousin Gellir was abandoned at the altar by his betrothed, the despondent bridegroom had headed to Perth, determined to fight for the king’s honor. Or die trying.

It was that second part that had spurred Adam to follow Gellir.

Adam had worked hard all his life to measure up to the standards of the Rivenloch clan. To be as dedicated as Brand. As fierce as Hew. As magnificent as Gellir.

In the end, he’d had to come to terms with the truth. He would never be as noteworthy or celebrated as his cousins. He would always stand in their shadows.

Eventually he realized the truth. By keeping to the shadows, he could better protect them. His weapon was his anonymity. A weapon he wielded with great skill.

This time he’d used it to keep Gellir from making a foolish sacrifice.

He’d brought along Merraid the maidservant, also disguised as a monk. He knew the lass had feelings for Gellir. Perhaps she’d help persuade Gellir to abandon his self-destructive fight.

Instead, Merraid proved her affections by joining the battle at Gellir’s side. Thankfully, she could hold her own. Trained by Adam’s sister, Feiyan, Merraid had considerable warrior skills.

As it turned out, she also had an impressive gift for words. She managed to scribble out for Adam a diplomatic missive, ostensibly from the Pope, meant to forge peace between the lairds and the king.

And it had worked.

Adam had delivered the message. The king was content. The lairds were mollified. And Gellir was out of danger.

All Adam needed to do now was destroy the evidence and tie up the loose ends.

Passing by a small campfire, he discreetly dropped the scrawled missive into the flames, where it was quickly consumed.

As far as witnesses, Gellir and Merraid were the only ones who could identify Adam.

He knew Merraid wouldn’t breathe a word.

And his cousin Gellir would never disclose his identity. Indeed, Gellir had aided him, taking Adam’s satchel for safekeeping while the “Pope’s messenger” handled the negotiations in the keep.

But as Adam brushed past his cousin to surreptitiously retrieve the satchel, he spotted an entire company of familiar faces.

Shite.

His whole clan was here.

Seizing the satchel and pulling his hood low over his eyes, he reversed direction and turned back toward the castle.

Damn.

A pair of puffing, red-faced monks were swiftly waddling his way. No doubt they wished to speak with the esteemed emissary of the Pope, hoping His holiness would rub off on them.

Adam angled again, striding off toward the forest so abruptly that he knocked someone aside.

A swift glance told him it was a wee figure in gray.

A second glance revealed it was a lass. A lass whose breathtaking face was instantly engraved on his mind.

He hesitated, intending to apologize, but unable to form words.

A third glance revealed she was a nun.

She opened her mouth to speak, and panic widened his eyes.

He whirled to make a hasty escape.

The naive King Malcolm had been easy to impress. A pair of awestruck monks he could handle. But a nun?

Nuns were notoriously well-educated. A nun might ask him questions he couldn’t answer. Questions about scripture. Or Rome. Or what the Pope ate for supper.

He needed to get to a place of concealment and divest from his vestments before anyone grew the wiser.

Eve arched a brow as the Pope’s emissary fled in terror.

How rude, she thought. He’d bumped into her. Made no apology. And then set off again as if pursued by demons.

She frowned in disappointment. Perhaps that was the way of those close to the Pope. Perhaps they had no time for ordinary folk.

Or perhaps Roman law forbade men of the cloth to speak with women.

Or maybe he thought the collision was her fault, that she’d planted herself in his holy way.

At any rate, his stride was too long for her to attempt to chase after him. She feared the effort would have been useless anyway. Gazing at him at such close range had left her utterly tongue-tied.

She wondered if all Romans were so handsome. His sun-kissed skin had glowed from the shadow of his hood. His dark eyes had gleamed with divining interest. His mouth had softened and then tensed as he turned to go. It was a face she’d never forget.

Then she blew out a dissatisfied breath. She supposed she’d come to Perth for nothing. She was no closer to performing a great act of service than before. She’d been unable to even send along her best wishes to the Holy Father.

As for the Pope’s man, he’d apparently achieved what he’d come for. The king and the lairds were all smiles when they emerged from the castle. Spying from the back of the crowd, she learned King Malcolm had even granted Sir Gellir and his loyal maidservant Merraid permission to be wed.

At least someone was enjoying a happily-ever-after ending.

Lingering a bit longer, she overheard the soldiers talking about an upcoming tournament in a fortnight. The king had insisted Sir Gellir’s nuptials take place at Perth. And because it was a Rivenloch affair, a tournament would naturally follow.

Eve smiled to herself as a new plan formed in her head. Perhaps all was not lost after all.